The Wistful Mirror
The pendulum had stopped at noon. It hung motionless in the throat of the great grandfather clock, a heavy brass weight suspended in the stale air of the Thorne estate. I stood before it, my hands trembling not from age, but from the cold that seeped out of the woodwork. The foreclosure notice lay on the workbench, the ink still wet, a stark red stain against the grain of the oak. If I could...
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